


Illumination

by thegrendel



Category: Original Work
Genre: Childhood Memories, Dark Magic, F/M, Innocence, Justice, Magic, Molestation, Pedophilia, Underage Sex, ancient manuscript, cartaphilia, settling of accounts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 19:24:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15589020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrendel/pseuds/thegrendel
Summary: A long-lost manuscript describes a hidden doorway to another world, a world where many nubile, prepubescent girls are there for the taking.





	Illumination

The book lay buried under volume 24 [W-X] of a thirty-year-old  
encyclopedia. The two-for-a-dollar sidewalk bin in front of the Trendy  
Reading Emporium was sometimes a treasure trove, though more often a  
waste of time. But what in the hell was this old handwritten diary doing  
there? The Scholar immediately sensed that it was grossly out of place --  
an exotic flower growing atop a dungheap was the image that came to mind.

It was bound in fine-grained red leather, cracked and darkened by the  
years.
    
    
        . . . hidden cleft 500 feet below the summit . . .
    
        The Kalipurna expedition was down to its last three oxygen bottles.
        In the rarified atmosphere at 27,000 feet, this compressed gas was
        literally the breath of life. Only our stolid native porters with
        their inscrutable dark eyes could survive for long without it.
    
        I set out alone that night, knowing our venture was doomed. Taking
        one of the precious oxygen cylinders, I left our pitiful little
        shelter under the rock overhang with a coil of rope over my shoulder,
        dying hope, and the tattered remnants of a vision.
    
        By the scant light of a three-quarter moon I laboriously made my
        way over the treacherous ridge leading toward an unseen summit. The
        thought of a cold, cleansing death was unbearably sweet to me in those
        moments, knowing that I was an outcast from home, family, and society.
    
        The temperature read -35 C, and the wind was at force 3.
    
        . . .
    
        All of it -- the pain and anguish, the shame, the notoriety, the
        loss of honor, the self-loathing -- had been precipitated by my
        overpowering passion for the little ones, for those delightful,
        but dangerously enticing creatures, for the unripe nymphs . . .
    
        Naught awaited me back there, back in so-called civilized society,
        aside from captivity, and what was euphemistically referred to as
        "rehabilitation." Escape into the purity of obliteration would be
        infinitely preferable.
    
        . . .
    
        It might have been a trick of the light. The moon had nearly set, and
        moving phantom-shadows obscured the rock face. A cave? No! Yes! There
        it was, just as it had come to me in dreams.
    
        Barely could I squeeze my body into the narrow crevice, encumbered
        as I was. The flickering illumination of the headlamp showed broken
        planes of rock, and . . . yes! There! Were those faint scratches
        on the far wall? Indeed. Scribings! Runes! I collapsed in exhausted
        gratitude onto my knees and wept.
    
        These were the signs! This was indeed the doorway I had sought for
        so long. Now it was just a matter of opening it, and the dreams had
        shown me the way. The ritual. The ritual of unbinding the Closure
        Between the Many Worlds.
    
        Blood. Such was the key. A knife swiftly drawn across the veins of
        my wrist, then the life elixir smeared in foreordained patterns over
        the markings. Now the chant! I struggled to recall the voice in my
        dreams, that keening child's falsetto. (There will come ILLUMINATION,
        and it will show the WAY.)
    
        No! Not enough! Help me! Must remember! Childhood recollections come
        vomiting up -- hopes and fears and shattered expectations. Whimpering
        in the night. Cold sweats. Throbbing rages. The time when . . . when
        HE had me in HIS absolute power, when HE overpowered me and SPREAD ME
        ASUNDER, unheeding of my terror, when HE FORCED HIMSELF INTO ME and
        ripped from me the flower of my youth, wounded my soul . . . DESTROYED
        me. There is immense power in the screams of a child (my OWN screams),
        and I REMEMBERED and SCREAMED my bloody outrage across the years. And
        LIGHT streamed into the cave. The barrier had fallen.
    
        Light. A gentle wind -- warm and softly caressing my cheek. Puddles
        of melted hoarfrost mirrored radiant glory and a brightly shining
        path led downward. There was abundant greenery in the distance and
        the sun lay molten gold in a blue azure sky. Dimly luminous figures
        were drawing near and there was a faint melody in the air. It was a
        song of mystery, and of welcome and exalting.
    
        Maidens! There were three young girls, tender nymphets in the early
        bloom of youth. Draped in garlands of purple flowers that showed
        hints of tantalizing pink beneath. Enticing, beckoning. (Something
        dark within me lusted in barely-controlled fury.)
    
        One of them -- the leader? -- extended a hand. "Come," she sang. "I
        am Moira. I am Fate."
    

Here pages had been torn out. The narrative continued.
    
    
        They are not human. Of this I am now certain. While they bear the
        outward aspect of prepubescent females, they must be ancient in days,
        and there is within them eldritch magic.
    
        The nightly ritual had, as usual, left me utterly depleted and
        insensible. Awakening, I could scarcely stand under my own power.
        Then did Moira enter the sleeping chamber. She, who had TAKEN me and
        drained my very life essence into her relentless unhaired slit. Now
        she gave me to drink an elixir, a restorative. "I am the Soul of
        the World," she sang. "I am the Path. I am the Giver of Life, and
        the Taker. This night I have Given."
    

More pages were missing.
    
    
        There had been a grim finality in what Moira sang to me. I, who had
        partaken of her and her sisters' flesh for so many turns of the cycle,
        knew that the time had come for Completion. Every journey must have
        an end, and so, too, mine.
    
        I have been prepared for the Ritual of Completion. Here is my cup
        to drink, and it contains -- so my Lover has sung -- exotic herbs
        and grasses, arcane mushrooms, and, to set free the magic in this
        noisome, bubbling brew, a cupful of blood, dark blood drawn from my
        own mortal veins.
    
        I will drink deeply, and . . .
    
        . . .
    
        The bonds have been loosened, and I have been granted a moment's
        surcease to write the following.
    
        It is not so much that I have been found wanting, but that my life,
        and the choices I have made in it are ACCURSED. The cup I was given
        to drink opened a window into my very soul, and I SAW. I looked
        for the first time upon the face of THE ONE who had murdered my own
        innocence so very long ago, and I saw. I SAW MY OWN FACE.
    
        I saw. I saw that by becoming a predator upon young maidens, I had
        condoned the CRIME upon my own younger self. I SAW. I stared into
        the abyss and saw MY OWN FACE there. I looked upon the Monster and
        saw that I HAD BECOME HIM.
    
        From the dizzying heights of newly-found insight, I looked downward
        upon my MONSTROUS ACTS, the RAPES OF THE SOULS of innocent girls.
        DIRTY! These acts were foul, and I was spreading FILTH. My soul
        was infested with the worms of self-loathing. I had become filth
        incarnate.
    
        DEGRADED. As I hung by my wrists from the tree that witnessed my doom,
        one of the Sisters had prodded my miserable body with the jagged
        end of a branch. Then She had pressed it into me, into my backside,
        deep into my OPENING, and I felt something tear within me as the blood
        ran down my thighs. I had been RAPED and RIPPED OPEN and HUMILIATED,
        and so brought down to the level of my own victims.
    
        I think of what might have been. Early in my childhood years, Mother
        had told me how very special I was, that I would be a torch to
        illuminate the world. Illuminate the world. Instead of illuminating
        the world, I have darkened it.
    
        There is nothing left to me in this life. Perhaps the Sisters shall
        grant me Completion if I ask. Perhaps I will beg this one favor
        of them.
    
        Thus sang Moira:
    
       "These children are flesh of our flesh, and nightly we hear their
        screams, undimmed by the chasm of the world-divide. And, You, the
        jackals, the predators upon their innocence, in turn We shall hunt
        you down in your dreams. We, the Furies, and in our wrath We bring
        you PAIN. We BLIGHT and CURSE the miserably twisted courses of your
        petty lives. We feed off the raw bitterness of your existence. We
        DEVOUR your souls."
    

Following more blank pages, there was written in pale purple pigment,  
in a different hand:
    
    
        It took the emasculated and eviscerated HUMAN TORCH many hours to
        die in blazing glory, and he was screaming out his agony the entire
        time. Afterward, the expression on the shriveled remnants of his face
        was strangely calm. He had finally found peace. HE HAD ILLUMINATED
        THE WORLD.
    

The Scholar laid down the book. He pondered.

This was powerful stuff, powerful indeed. Compellingly real. Myth come  
to life.

Oddly enough, there had been a rash of recent incidents of child molesters  
castrating and gutting themselves, then ending their lives in a pyre  
of flaming gasoline. They had reportedly been babbling to friends and  
neighbors of the unendurable nightmares that haunted them. It was tempting  
to think that supernatural intercession had a hand in that.

No! It was only a story, what purported to be a handwritten account  
of a demented lunatic's paranoid fantasies in a make-believe land of  
nubile goddesses. That the outcome of this parable of the Three Furies  
was condign punishment only added to its immediacy. But it was only a  
story. A flight of the imagination.

Only a story. The deranged fabrication of a deranged mind. Because if  
it were not so, then . . .
    
    
        . . . a pedophile reading the tale might be expecting to have his
        lust slaked by graphic descriptions of unbridled sex with little
        girls. Instead, he would be cursed. Accursed and blighted in full
        measure in the sense only the ancient storytellers understood. The
        hapless child-molesting reader would suffer nightmares, find his
        virility compromised, might well be afflicted with unpredictable
        chronic impotence of the most aggravating sort. Might find his
        elemental life force diminished. Might be reduced to half a man,
        if, in fact, he were anything resembling a whole man before.
    

What should he do with this . . . thing? Toss it in the trash?  
Surreptitiously slip it back into the bargain bin at the Trendy Reading  
Emporium? Write it up for the _Annals of Abnormal Psychology_?

No. He knew what must be done. He had contacts at major publishing houses  
who could help him get the book into print. And it would sell. It would  
be a huge success. The public's fascination with the bizarre and morbid  
would ensure that. And the power of the message would darken the life  
of every "child-lover" that it touched.

The Scholar thought of the horror and dismay the book would let loose  
amongst the pedo crowd. Good! Anything to strike back at that subhuman  
scum. He owed this much, at least, to his daughter. His young daughter  
who had been molested . . .


End file.
